Saturday, 15 December 2018

For a number of weeks now, my thoughts have
turned to those of the morbid variety. Being a writer, these often crystallise
in my mind as words, sometimes those of my peers. For example, the bon mots of
a famous Caterato, an American tomcat called Blatherskite,
who once said in his characteristic Mississippi drawl: ‘I do not fear death. I
had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born, and had not
suffered the slightest inconvenience from it.’ Needless to say, his Human Slave, a man called Mark Twain, heard this
and transcribed it into his work (which is why you, human reader, may have
heard this quotation). And although Blatherskite is indeed correct, when faced
with the facts of the matter, trying not to fear the end, the final full-stop
to one’s existence, is easier said than done. Such macabre perambulations of my
thoughts, were centred on two events which occurred recently, which I will
relay to you in turn.

The first episode began
a month or so ago, precipitated by a visit to the green-gowned devil - I have
had cause to mention her in previous missives. The visit was preceded by an
uncomfortable trip in the car, where I’d somehow managed to sit awkwardly,
hurting my back. This was in turn followed by a routine vaccination, the
effects of which morphed me into something from a horror film. A few hours
after said inoculation, which itself had been relatively painless, my muzzle
blew up like a balloon and my nictitating membranes began to bulge out of my
eye sockets. Needless to say this was unpleasant and caused my Human Slaves
much consternation. Especially when I proceeded to void bilious stomach
contents over their Persian rug. I add the last for effect - my Slaves were of
course more concerned about me than said floorcloth.

So, off we trundled to
another green-gowned devil, who deemed it essential to forcibly insert a
thermometer into… Well, the less said about that the better. The swelling had thankfully
at this point settled, but my legs remained stiff. I was discharged, but had to
be followed up because this out of hours devil, with his all too thorough
examination, considered it necessary. Now, I had been suffering stiffness for a
while, but, you know it was on and off.

High on painkillers, I
had almost forgotten about the dreaded follow-up until a few weeks later, when
I was hoicked off to the vet’s again. Now, I was slightly concerned - perhaps
they’d found something last time, which they had kept from me? Was there
something in my liver, or eating away at my spleen? Was it terminal? I was
reassured that only my smaller Slave was there for this particular visit. ‘If it was the end, surely they would both
have been there?’ I thought to myself comfortingly, while at the same time worrying
about my legacy, the loose ends of which seemed as frayed as the end of my
favourite multicoloured-dangly-toy-on-a-stick-thing.

But I wasn’t prepared
for her reaction when I awoke from the anaesthetic. Groggy as I was, my first
thought was that I was glad to be alive again. My second thought was that
because my small Slave was in floods of tears, something must be dreadfully
wrong. She was talking to my Taller Slave, on her phone, so I managed to glean
parts of what was going on from her side of the conversation. Incidentally, he
was away in Bristol at a writers’ thing where he’d been reciting one of my
stories; the circularity of this didn’t fail to amuse me.

To cut a long story
short (as my editor/agent colleague Smilodon often suggests), it became
apparent that I have arthritis. Now, I am relatively old - middle aged in human
terms, I suppose - but this still came as a shock. I suppose this particular disease
is one that you could associate with the process of the gradual descent into
decrepitude which we know as ageing. Some breeds of cat get it earlier than
others; unfortunately it seems I am one of those unlucky ones.

I was coming to terms
with my plight and the bitter taste of the painkilling medication, when the
second thing happened.

It was nighttime and my
Slaves were asleep. I’d spent some time upstairs, working on tying up those
loose ends of which I spoke. Finishing off those short stories which had been
hanging over me for months, as well as working on the end of a novel. But I
needed a break, so I padded downstairs. The night seemed to lay an odd hush
over the house, almost as if the lack of light altered the way the building
transmitted sound.

My old bones creaked as I squeezed
myself through the cat flap. Or at least, that was my perception - since I
started with the pain relief, things have been easier. I haven’t exactly been
running around like a kitten, although I can now jump higher than I have done for
many months. I exercised this new ability by jumping onto the garden table.
After a few moments, I realised someone else was also in the garden, sat on the
cracked patio slabs below.

‘I wish you wouldn’t do
that,’ I said to The Architect, as he moved into a pool of moonlight.

‘I hear you’ve been
unwell,’ he said.

‘Athena told you?’ I
asked. Athena lived on the same street as me, a few doors down; her human slave
was apparently quite a famous Rock Star, or at least had managed to make a
career out of it, thanks to a hit single back in the 70s. Athena had been kind
enough to drop by a brace of freshly slaughtered voles as a get well present. I
thanked her, but when she’d left, quickly got rid of them - as I have
previously indicated, I’m fussy about what I eat and prefer my food to come out
of a can with a high end brand on the side.

The Architect nodded in
reply, his jowled muzzle quivering in the dark. As the silence that followed
grew longer and longer, I eventually felt obliged to say something. ‘Feeling a
bit better, actually.’

He nodded again, but
this time spoke. ‘I saw you leaping onto the table. You need to be careful; those
medications can make you feel like you have super powers.’ I noticed something
in his tone of voice, as if he wanted to tell me something.

‘What’s up? Something’s
wrong isn’t it?’ I queried.

‘Mylo has died,’ The
Architect said.

My legs were suddenly
heavy, like lead weights. I felt like covering my eyes with my paws, shutting
out the world. For a while I just shook my head, unwilling to believe this
could have happened.

‘How?’ I asked,
eventually.

‘Poison,’ The Architect
replied, but failed to elaborate further.

‘Poison? Someone killed
him?’ I asked, immediately wondering who could have been jealous of the cat’s
prodigious talent. There were no doubt a fair few whose feelings could have spiralled
out of control.

‘Well, they think it
was a human. A local farmer.’

‘On purpose?’

‘An accident, in all
likelihood. Poison laid down to kill some mice or rats.’

‘Which Mylo ate?’

‘I’m not sure of all
the details. But he was a voracious hunter. He probably caught and ate
something which had already been poisoned.’

‘He can’t have been
more than … what … five?’

The Architect nodded.
Some of the autumn leaves that had fallen from nearby trees were caught by a
flutter of wind. This was so sudden, it was almost as if speaking about our
friend had caused some part of his spirit to return. Then, as soon as it had
begun, the wind died and the leaves began to settle one by one.

‘The funeral’s next
week. Where he lived, place called Winterslow. Up Salisbury way. You going to
be well enough to attend?’ The Architect asked.

‘I’ll be there.
Whatever it takes,’ I replied. ‘But haven’t some of the portals around there
faded?’

‘Around Old Sarum they
have a somewhat capricious hold on reality. You’ll have to pass through the
catacombs in Salisbury.’

‘Right. I haven’t been
that way for some time…,’ I said, worriedly.

‘How about I come pick
you up then?’ asked The Architect.

We spoke a bit more,
about our friend, before The Architect once again disappeared into the night. I
remember thinking it was good of him to drop by - he was usually so busy at
that time of day, frantically pulling together the threads of time which had
been lost. Before feeding them into that antique Victorian machine in the
chine, which smoothed out all time’s blemishes ready for the next day.

Mylo had achieved more
in his five years on our planet than many did in a lifetime. He was a poet, his
bucolic surroundings often feeding into his verse, although not in an old
fashioned manner. His work was on point, up to date, tapping into some of the
paranoias and worries that human society fed back into that the feline world.
And it was brilliant. We’d become friends on the circuit, at some festival or
another where we’d both been reading. His was a larger than life character, the
central planet around which folk seemed to orbit at such events. Whether people
were there hoping to catch one of the witticisms he dropped at regular
intervals, or to have some of the brilliance rub off on them was uncertain. To
me, he was a fellow writer, another solider who fought alongside, and fabulous
company. His loss was a loss to the entire Caterati. With such a meteoric rise,
who knows what might have happened if he had lived.

That Mylo had died at
less than half my age, put my current problems into a degree of perspective.
I’d already enjoyed more that twice the amount of existence than poor Mylo. But
everything was relative. Some lights burn brighter than others, and for shorter
times. This fact we simply have to accept, however inconvenient.

The funeral was held in
the human verse of space, rather than that of the feline. It is a custom of
ours to hold such events in the realm of space where one meets one’s demise.
I’m not sure why this is the case, but it is a practice which goes back many
years. I expect it relates to the fact that, once your light has been
extinguished, it is difficult to then pass between realms.

We followed the old
paths, through the dusty, dank catacombs under the cathedral, and then picked
up a portal which carried us over to the East of the city. The funeral was to
take place just outside a village called Winterslow, where there is a large
mansion house with a rather unusual sculpture garden in the grounds. It was
also close to Mylo’s old stomping ground. One of his friends, a beautiful
silver tabby feline called Sylvia had organised the entire affair, and was
ushering cats this way and that. Well, trying to: herding cats is, as you are
well aware, an impossible task. Although it was dark, a number of the
sculptures closer to the house were illuminated. Amongst the artwork on display
was a rather odd looking cat-like creature, the height of a human, which was
provoking an interesting reaction. Other pieces just seemed to loom out of the
dark: odd block-like shapes, inspired by some element of the human condition.

I spent some time in
the vicinity of these pieces, wandering across the neatly manicured lawns,
spongy with rain. After some time, I located The Architect, and together we
wandered into the small courtyard which had been commandeered for the
proceedings. The place was full, as befitting Mylo’s status. I recognised many
familiar faces: Ziggy was there, now a fully fledged member of the Caterati,
with his debut novel making waves on the Indie scene. Athena was there too, her
owl fluttering above the throng, its steel casing shimmering in the reflections
of the spotlights.

I remember there being
something in the air, something like a pheromone that put me ill at ease. At
the same time this discontent was laced with a base note of aggression.
However, I’d kind of put the latter down to Sylvia’s slightly obsessive
compulsive behaviour; she was grieving, after all, and sometimes this can bring
out characteristics we aren’t necessarily proud of. Or perhaps it was just that
everyone was at a funeral and it was a sad occasion - it had been a while since
I’d been to one.

As things commenced,
everything had seemed civilised. Friends and relatives stood up and read out
Mylo’s work, to choruses of screeches and miaows from the throng. In between
readings, the air felt alive, with the vibration of the concerted purring
making me think there was a swarm of bees in the vicinity.

I can’t remember exactly
when everything went wrong. But I think it started when a cat called Buxton, a
British blue, stood up and spoke. His words were powerful, casting the finger
of blame at the local farmer who had laid the poison. He called for retribution
and revenge. There were murmurs of assent at this, but even then the crowd
remained calm, as one, mourning gracefully. Buxton sat down and more followed.

I think something must
have happened as we were leaving. There were shouts for revenge, that something
had to be done. There was a sudden push and cats began scrambling over each
other as they made for the exit. I lost The Architect in the fray. Outside, on
top of the cat statue, a young cat was whipping up the throng, her tail
thrashing the air so violently that I thought she might lose her balance and
fall. She was spitting words, none of which seemed to hang together.

‘…set fire to the
house…scratch his eyes out while he sleeps…kill his faithful hounds…poison his
family with the same stuff that…’

‘Poison them!’ a tomcat
shouted, which was greeted with murmurs of approval.

‘Let’s do it now! While
they sleep!’ another cat shouted, this time a female.

‘STOP!’ another voice shouted.
It was one of Mylo’s friends, who had read early in the proceedings. He was
stood on the top of the wall that surrounded the small courtyard garden where
the service had taken place. ‘Poison? You will do no such thing. You think this
is what Mylo wanted?’

‘Mylo would be alive,
if it weren’t for that farmer!’ exclaimed another female, on the verge of
hysteria.

‘Mylo was a peace-loving
cat. He wished no harm to come to anyone. How is this respecting his life?’
came the reply.

A sudden indignant
silence fell across the crowd. Mylo’s friend seemed to have quelled the urgent
anger of the crowd. Knowing he now had his audience, he continued: ‘If you need
to do anything, you should do something naughty, something irreverent. An act that
respects the mischievous side of Mylo’s personality.’

‘Like what?’ asked a
lone voice.

‘If you must do
anything, how about you spoil the farmer’s cider? I’ve heard that cat piss
doesn’t do much for its flavour.’

Hoping to find The
Architect, I followed the clowder as they marched up towards Winterslow. The
crowd was making a mess of the reception table, as they quaffed large
quantities of the fermented white stuff, in preparation for the proceedings.
Sylvia was flapping about and was somewhat unbelievably marking things down on
a clipboard; to this day, I still have no idea what she was doing.

As the line of cats
wound its sinuous way across the landscape, I found myself in conversation with
the British Blue called Buxton, who had given the rousing eulogy. Buxton was
named after a famous cat from a programme called The Magic Roundabout, he
explained, before quizzing me about my current projects. The way he waited for
me as we passed over a fence was touching, but made me feel my age. Perhaps I
was limping - the cold had set in a bit and my legs were aching at that point.

In any case, we soon
found our way to the farm, where the cats were scurrying around, gingerly
removing the tops of the large vats he kept in his cider shed. Soon the boozy
aroma was wafting its way across to my nostrils. But at the same time there was
also the sharp tang of cat piss, as one by one, cats relieved themselves into
the large vats. A few of the cats fell in, had to be helped out, the liquid
sticking to their coats, making them seem like thinner, rattier creatures. This
went on for a time, until one of the cats jumped up onto the top of a cider
press and knocked the lid onto the floor. The massive crash didn’t go unnoticed
and soon lights were popping up in the windows of the adjacent farmhouse. At
this point, everyone scattered. I ran as fast as my arthritic legs could carry
me, and by the time I heard the shotgun go off, I was almost at the door to the
portal.

On the way back,
without The Architect’s assistance, I found myself lost. I’d found my way to
Old Sarum, but it was there the portals faded out, forcing travellers to join
the older paths located in the human verse. I tentatively made my way along the
deep tunnels beneath the ramparts of the old motte and bailey castle, following
the immortal words of Mylo. He had travelled this way many times, and captured
his experiences in a quartet of sonnets, which were celebrated for their bleak,
gothic nature. These poems, like many of his others, hinted at a somewhat
difficult, perhaps even sinister, future ahead.

It had been the
catacombs beneath Salisbury centre which had thrown me. There were too many
false turnings and dead ends, and try as I might, I couldn’t find the next
section of the portal system. Eventually I gave up, and found my way out via a
trapdoor in an old wooden pub called The
Haunch of Venison. The place was thankfully closed and in complete
darkness, reeking of a mixture of spilled beer and cleaning fluids. Being one
of the older public houses in Salisbury, it was naturally filled with the
liminal forms of ghosts, although they seemed more than usually discontent,
whispering incoherently at me. Some of them were protecting a box on the wall
of the place. I hopped up from the warped wooden floorboards onto a table, to
better inspect this artefact, sending the spectral forms scurrying into the
corners of the room. The box contained a mummified human hand; for creatures of
other realms, such a thing was like a honeypot for bees. And it drew the
tourists in, some of whom would leave with a ghost mired in their spirit.

Leaving this hideous
artefact alone, I crept out of the pub via an open kitchen window, rimed with
grease. Having licked the dirt and grease from my coat and once again made
myself presentable, I made my way to the main street, hoping I would be hidden
by darkness. Instead, blue lights strobed across the night and the place was a
hive of human activity. Police officers were standing around, looking concerned
as they watched another group of humans, dressed in some kind of luminescent
protective gear, climb out of a van. Some people were shouting in the distance
and I heard the buzz of a helicopter overhead. I had once to flatten myself
against a wall as a large military vehicle thundered by. Something distinctly
odd was happening.

I had to double back to
get to the cathedral, and even then I had to sneak under some police tape. Soon
though, I was beneath its towering spire and from there it was a short stretch
to the cloisters. Whatever had happened out in the city beyond the walls of the
protected place was spooking those in the dimensions beyond. More spectral
shapes skittered about, as if panicking. I ignored them and bounded down into
the crypt, where I could pick up the portal network again.

Eventually, with
relief, I found myself back in Bournemouth, my back limbs now groaning with the
effort. The Architect was waiting for me in the garden, a concerned look
furrowing his brow. I explained how I’d got caught up in something, where the
behaviour of humans was distinctly strange. And how their discomfiture had
spilled into the neighbouring dimensions, causing an unease in the regions
beyond.

‘This is a world in
flux,’ The Architect said, in his usual flat tone. He explained what he’d heard
was happening in Salisbury; how humans appeared to be poisoning themselves as
well as some of us.

‘He wasn’t a
soothsayer, if that’s what you are suggesting,’ said The Architect, with an
uncharacteristic contrariness. I supposed he knew about such matters.

‘I wasn’t suggesting
that,’ I replied, slowly, gauging my friend’s expression. ‘What I meant was …
perhaps he was able to pick up on the mess humans are making of the world? At
least more than some of us can?’

‘You might be right. In
any case, the clock doesn’t stop ticking. Whatever happens, time will continue
its endless march forward. We are just bystanders in this, as we are in human
affairs,’ The Architect replied. I was struck by the eloquence of this and
thought about it for a while, as we both raised our heads to the heavens. I was
still staring upwards at the sky thinking about it when I realised he had
departed. I waited in the garden for a while longer, wondering if the leaves
would rise up and give me another sign from Mylo. But this time, they remained
still.

I
sighed. It had been a while since I’d seen Jim. We were in a pub called The
Mitre, one of our old university haunts. It hadn’t taken us long to make our
way there – I’d timed the time it took from when the train arrived until we
found the familiar seat in the pub’s window: less than 30 minutes. True to
form, rather than browsing the library’s latest catalogue or singing in the
choir, like some of the returning graduates did, we’d gone straight to the pub.
Ostensibly we were there for a college dinner, but from years of experience
they were dry stuffy affairs. During the halcyon years of university we’d
become accustomed to pre-loading before these events, and old habits died hard.

I
looked up at his jowly and recently bearded features. His beard was full – much
better than the wispy effort he used to occasionally sport in our salad days. ‘Well,
I have lost a few Twitter followers…’

‘Twitter?’
he asked scathingly. ‘People still use that?’

‘It
all started out as a bit of a joke.’

‘Twitter?
I thought Jack Dorsey was serious about the whole thing.’

‘Who
is he?’ I asked.

‘He
invented Twitter,’ Jim explained, a touch of sarcasm in his tone. I think he
was getting his own back for the SF versus Sci-Fi comment.

‘Right.’

‘I’m
sorry. You were saying… The cat stories started as a joke.’

‘Yes.
I’d been on this writers’ conference. The subject of writers’ familiars came
up. The cat was of course mentioned. In fact, I’d included a piece for
critiquing which contained a cat.’

‘Thrilling
stuff, this,’ said Jim, managing to somehow simultaneously roll his eyes and drain his glass.

‘Anyway,
one of my writer pals suggested that my cat was sitting at home, bashing out
novel after novel and was far more successful than I was.’

‘You
did call him Isaac. What kind of a name is that for a cat?’

‘He
isn’t called Isaac.’

‘Really?
Hang on, was it Arthur? Bradbury?’

I
ignored this and continued. ‘So I started writing these stories from the
perspective of a cat who was famous in his own right. But at the same time,
lived a double life as a house cat, tended to by his human owners, which he
refers to as Slaves.’

‘I
think I need another pint,’ remarked Jim. ‘Same again?’

As
Jim stood at the bar, I gazed out of the window, looking across to the flank of
St John’s college. The street outside was busy with tourists, students, bikes
and the occasional bus or taxi. I’d whiled away many hours in that same spot,
often with a science fiction novel to hand, a pint in the other. Much had changed
since then, but in some ways it hadn’t. The smoking ban meant that the air
inside the establishment was actually breathable, unlike the toxic fog we used
to have to contend with – but at the same time, I couldn’t shake the desire to
step outside and spark up a ciggy. For old time’s sake. To feed the nostalgic
beast inside.

I
wondered about the cat stories. Whether I was sabotaging my creative output by
writing them rather than the more generic space opera I’d started with. Was my
voice being stifled by The Cat’s feline miaows? Perhaps I should bring him to
Cambridge, to where it all started. I imagined him walking down the street,
looking at all the students pouring out of this very pub. Probably with
disdain.

‘Toxoplasmosis,’
Jim muttered, settling a pint of Abbot in front of me on the wooden table. As I
lifted it to meet Jim’s glass, I noticed it left a ring of wetness on the
surface. I was sure they used to have coasters in this place, which I’d routinely
tear to pieces over the course of the evening, my fingers needing something to
worry at when they weren’t tapping out stories.

‘I
recall learning something about that.’

‘You
get it from cats. Causes cysts in the brain. You can catch it from cat faeces.
Probably why you are coming out with all the cat shit. Because it has literally
voided its bowels into your mindbox.’

‘Do
you mind?’

‘I
think we were referring to yours.’

‘Anyway,
since when were you the expert on feline fiction? I thought you were only
interested in rugby and kidneys?’

‘Much
of what you say is true,’ Jim said, wiping some of the foamy beer from his
moustache.

‘Perhaps
you should combine the two. Make up a game with a kidney shaped ball.’

After
a few word games with this metaphorical ball, we set up Bridge Street towards
the river. We battled against a tide of tourists, groups of which were lead by
officious leaders brandishing selfie sticks. I’d always found the tourist side
to the town frustrating as an undergraduate. They just got in the way of the
purpose of the town: my purpose, I’d felt, grandiosely. But here I was,
essentially a tourist, my ties to the college now withered with time.

Jim
stopped just before the bridge, looking inside the windows of an estate agent.
There was a look of sadness in his eyes.

‘This
was where–?’ I started.

‘Yes,’
Jim interrupted.

‘No
more free poppadums,’ we said in unison.

‘I
can’t believe, given the amount we used to spend in there, he couldn’t keep
going,’ I remarked.

‘Maybe
he died. Probably died,’ Jim replied.

‘Perhaps.
Or set up somewhere else.’

At
the bridge, we hesitated, and stood watching the punts go buy. The river was
busy with tourists: tidy groups of more elderly travellers competing with
unruly packs of younger kids. Punts were strewn at odd angles across the river
– someone had tried to turn, but failed, and was now causing a huge backlog.
There was the dull clunk of wood on wood, as the punts collided. Some of the European students shrieked.
A young man tottered, trying to keep his balance, but couldn’t manage it and
splashed into the water.

‘Woah,’
said Jim.

‘Yeah,
he was lucky he wasn’t crushed between those punts…’

‘No,
it wasn’t that.’

‘What
was it then?’ I asked, looking at Jim’s face with concern. Abbot was a strong
pint – perhaps it was having some adverse effects on my old friend.

‘I
just blinked. And when I opened my eyes, the entire place was filled with cats.
Cats on the riverbank, filling the punts… Everywhere. Like something out of
your stories.’

‘Weird,’
I remarked.

‘You’ve
never brought your Cat to Cambridge?’

‘No
he’s at home in Bournemouth. Probably asleep on the bed.’

‘I
meant your fictional Cat.’

‘No.
Not yet. But there’s an idea…’

Later,
as we walked across Great Court, heading toward the drinks reception in the
court beyond, it felt for a moment like we had never left. The setting sun cast
long shadows over the court’s central fountain, lighting the great hall from
the opposite side, giving the impression it was filled with fire. A light breeze caught the sound of
evensong, which then capriciously danced away again. To our left a solitary don
plodded across the grass, wearing his robes as if they were as heavy as lead,
tired by the Atlas-like task of supporting the weight of his knowledge. Or,
given the sway of his vestments, possibly the bottles of port cached within.

‘You
know what I’ve always hated about cats?’ asked Jim.

‘Go
on.’

‘I’m
allergic.’

‘But
you’re not allergic to spacecraft, right?’

‘No.’

‘But
who knows, you could be allergic to aliens?’

‘Perhaps
all cats are aliens. I wouldn’t put it past them.’

‘I’m
just a facilitator, in that case.’

‘Just
part of their greater plan,’ replied Jim.

‘Like
we were part of this place’s greater plan?’ I suggested.

We
left Great court, passed the hustle and bustle of the buttery and great hall -
the latter offering a glimpse of Holbein’s Henry the 8th through an
open doorway. And then we were part of the crowd of familiar faces: some
forgotten, some remembered, some even ignored. We went our separate ways,
dancing through the crowd in the Brownian motion that is required of such
events.

And
occasionally, I wondered about a group of cats doing the same, drinking pints
of milk or even the bubbling fermented stuff, dancing through the shadowy
cloisters. As I stepped away from the crowd of humans, they bore me away to the
windows which offered a view of the backs. Offering a series of mournful
miaows, they pointed at the sky. Something large was descending, something
metallic and beautiful and strange. Something not of this world. It settled on
the opposite side of the river, shrouded in a pall of steam or smoke.

There
was the peal of a gong, as the hatch beneath the craft opened. A gong struck
again, bringing me back into reality: my fellow humans were pouring upwards into the great
hall, following the call to dinner.I waved goodbye to the feline horde, then turned away to join my fellow alumni, leaving the cats and their
giant spacecraft behind.

END

Author's note: This is a companion piece to the last two Caturday stories. But despite any misgivings suggested above, The Cat will return. Being a capricious creature by nature, exactly when is an entirely different matter...

Friday, 7 September 2018

The
spiral staircase seemed to climb upwards forever, the cold stone leaching the
heat from my paws. The steps were high, designed for human legs, so each one
took extra effort. On each landing, I passed a number of closed doors, beside
which were plaques bearing the immaculately hand-painted names of the room’s occupants.
Which tense of occupant – past, present or future – was uncertain. The place
was dimly lit, even for a cat’s eyes, but a wrought iron banister prevented any
accidental descent.

On
the top landing, there was a single door, outside which stood a wooden chair.
The chair was a simple structure, austere, without any of the ornate woodwork
I’d seen as I’d walked past the great hall. On it sat a velvet cushion, tassels
and trim in a rich gold colour; it had also been embroided with the college
arms. I wondered about sitting on this, spreading my white fur over its rich
purple surface. But, being a cat, I didn’t have these thoughts for long, and
soon was kneading the surface with my claws.

The
time for my appointment came and passed. I started to wonder whether or not I
should try and enter the room. It seemed to be the right place and the name S.
Moriarty was painted next to the door, as expected. Here resided the cat who
lead a mysterious double life: literary agent and university lecturer. I
wondered about breaking and entering, but decided this probably wasn’t the best
way to make a good impression.

Some
noise behind the wooden panelling assuaged the apprehensive feelings.
Eventually the door creaked open and a number of student cats strolled out.
They seemed to be sporting different kinds of hats and carried books in
knapsacks strung over their shoulders. A few glanced at me without interest as
they sauntered down into the gloom. One, a pedigree Siamese, stopped and began
to spark up a cigarette before a booming voice behind him halted him in his
tracks.

At
this, Greatorix gave a louche shrug and slunk off down the stairs, following
the others. Then the Burmese turned to me. ‘Ah, you must be the author from
Dorset! Do come in…’

I
followed the tail into the room, watching it jump onto a comfy looking armchair
near the fireplace. I jumped when I heard the door behind me click closed, but
before I’d had time to work out how that had happened (a series of
counterweights, it turned out), the Burmese was gesturing to the opposite
chair.

‘Introductions,
first! Well my name is Smilodon,’ he said.

‘Smilodon?’
I queried.

‘Yes.
My Slave named me after a formidable and indeed celebrated extinct katze cat, more commonly known as a
sabre-tooth tiger.’

‘Oh,
right. My Slave named me after–‘

‘And
I’m extremely fröhlich pleased you
are here. I thought the novel was fantastic,’ Smilodon interrupted.

I
looked at the slightly pinched features, thrown by the interruption, and wondering
what to say next. ‘Right–,’ I started eventually.

‘It
is lustig funny isn’t it,’ he again interrupted.
‘These rooms are those occupied by my Slave in the other world we regularly
inhabit. We are such creatures of habit. I just wouldn’t want to be anywhere
else.’

‘I
find–,’ I began again, only to be thwarted once more.

‘My
Slave, the Deutscher German scholar
Professor Moriarty, is such a fusspot. Has me on this special food. Well, the
thing is I like exploring. Which takes me across the rooftops, into students’
rooms. And the treats on offer, let me tell you. But yes, ate a few too many of
the wrong things. Had to make a trip to that green-gowned fellow you refer to…
when was it, in teil chapter 7?’

I
stammered for a second, the German words which he instantly translated jarring
my thoughts. ‘J-j-just before–,’ I started.

‘So,
the book was Wunderschön wonderful! You
see we have a little issue here, in Trinity. With a ghost. And given your
experience, I was wondering if you could help?’ With this question, Smilodon
finally stopped speaking and looked at me.

‘I’m
a writer. I make this stuff up. From my head. I don’t actually have any
experience exorcising spirits.’

‘I
know, I know… And I’m sure this book is going to be a hit. But would you mind
awfully?’ he asked, looking distractedly at one of his bookcases, which I
noticed was bulging with tomes.

Of
course, since this moment, I have had countless requests for the same thing. From
readers who, to put it delicately, have difficulty separating my fiction from
real life. People who actually think I am the protagonist of my novels and can
achieve the same lofty feats. In a similar manner to Conan Doyle receiving
requests about unsolved crimes because people thought he was actually Holmes, I
suspect. Incidentally, that Smilodon's Slave is a J. Moriarty is pure coincidence
– these things can happen in literature, just as they can in life.

So,
being somewhat naïve, at the time, I was completely thrown by Smilodon’s
request. I’d come expecting to talk about literature, potentially procuring an
agent, and now I was being expected to try and perform some kind of exorcism?
From my research about ghosts, I knew that some could be dangerous, particularly
when they crossed multiple dimensions – the energy required to do that alone
could be released suddenly with catastrophic effect.

‘I’m
not sure this is such a good idea,’ I suggested.

‘Oh,
come now, what harm can possibly be done?’ Smilodon replied.

The
clock outside then struck, its note reverberating around the court outside as
it marked the half hour.

‘Zeit! Gosh, is that the time?’ Smilodon
asked. ‘We’re going to be late.’

‘Late
for an exorcism?’ I asked.

‘No,
don’t be silly. Late for dinner! I assume you’ll accompany me to high table? We
can deal with all that ghost nonsense later.’

‘Probably
best on a full stomach?’ I suggested wryly.

‘Natürlich! Naturally!’

High
table was in the great hall I’d passed earlier, peeking in through the open
doorway as cats rushed around with silver platters. I hadn’t expected I would
be returning there to dine a few hours later. In the Master’s lodge for pre-dinner
drinks, Smilodon furnished me with a gown, explaining, ‘You’ll need one of
these for abendessen dinner.’ It was
a ropy old thing, that reeked of cigar smoke and marked me out as a visitor to
the college.

As
glasses of sparkling Kefir, a kind of fermented milk, were passed around,
Smilodon helpfully introduced me to the older dons as ‘The Exorcist’. This
seemed to garner a certain amount of interest, until I explained I was a
writer, their curiosity waning somewhat.

‘But
you are going to help us out with the little problem in New court?’ asked a
grizzled old Tomcat called Confucius, all grey whiskers and jowls.

‘I’ll
try my best,’ I said. ‘Might need a few more of these first,’ I quipped,
gesturing at the Kefir.

‘Ah,
a fortifier. Good stuff,’ drawled Confucius, before turning to speak to another
member of the college about what sounded like the perennial problem of lighting
the avenue, wherever that was.

At
the toll of a bell, we were ushered into the great hall. Large portraits of
cats adorned the walls, standing proud like lions. Their likenesses had been
captured in their finest poses, their intimidating immortal gazes passing over
the heads of the less worthy below. Beneath the raised daïs, rows of the
student cats sat, all respectfully silent as we entered.

We
then stood for a while as some words of the old language were muttered by an
ancient grey cat at the top of the table, who barely seemed able to move. When
this was done I settled down next to Smilodon, only to be instantly confused by
the cutlery on the table. I was used to eating out of a bowl – the idea of
incorporating implements into this necessary, albeit pleasurable, function had
always seemed to me unnecessary - seemed too much like cats mimicking their
Slaves. But, rather than make a show, I tried my best to carve up the starter
of pigeon stuffed with quail, which I’d been deftly served.

‘Schau mal ober, see up there?’ asked
Smilodon, raising his paw to the high rafters of the vaulted ceiling.

I
turned away from the bird which I had by now badly butchered and of which I had
failed to consume a morsel. Eventually, following Smilodon’s gesture, my eyes
lit upon a wooden duck: a mallard, attached to the one of the rafters, high
above.

‘Looks
like a duck,’ I said, squinting. ‘How did it get up there?’ I asked. Even for a
cat, the distance between the rafters would be too much to jump, the walls
either side too sheer to climb without assistance.

‘No-one
knows. But the interesting thing is, die
Ente, the duck, moves around from time to time.’

‘It
really is a long way up. I wouldn’t trust my paws up there…’

‘Nicht viele, Not many would. It is,
you’ll understand, unforgivable to be caught climbing up there. But yet the
students move it around as a joke.’

‘Hilarious,’
I replied.

‘Ich glaube, I believe those who have
moved it are inculcated into a special society. A snub against the college’s
rules perhaps.’

Out
conversation was interrupted by one of the waiting staff. I watched the carcass
of my butchered starter being removed, along with its requisite set of silver,
with a sense of relief.

‘Komische…The odd thing is that the
wooden bird up has its own rules of physics. I’m not sure I can describe it as
well as some of my peers. I’m just a German scholar. But that duck seems to be
an anchor point between the human and feline universes,’ Smilodon continued.

‘So
when the duck moves there…’

‘It
also moves here. Some boffin’s idea: one of the brighter students is reputed to
have come up with the correct scientific formula. Clever trick, eh?’

Thinking
of this trick, I thought of that which I was expected to perform in this place
called New Court. I was forced to reject the vintages which were being served,
much to my regret. Whatever it was I’d got myself into here, I needed a clear
head, not one fogged with the heady effects of my chosen poison.

The
rest of the dinner passed in something of a blur, perhaps on account of my
nervousness regarding the after dinner activities. I suppose it was, in human parlance,
a bit like having to do a speech, traditionally left until after dinner, so it
is difficult to enjoy either food and wine on offer until this is done. The
fish course passed by and I managed to lick morsels off the odd-shaped knife
with which I was provided. And then the desert – some kind of creamy sweet
thing – I barely touched.

I
do have some recollection of Smilodon asking me queries about the book: my
book. But it seemed these were more for the benefit of my elderly neighbour who
held a large metal cone to his ear, a so-called ‘ear trumpet’, to aid his
hearing. I wondered if this codger even had a human Slave, or whether he spent
all his time here, ensconced in this Ivory Tower. At least I didn’t stand a
chance of such a fate happening to me.

Soon
another noise, this time a large gong, signalled dinner was over. As before,
some more of the old language was muttered by one of the dons, which I tried to
make sense of but couldn’t. Although this seemed a rushed job compared to the
previous effort, as if they were eager to leave. Beside me, Smilodon nodded
sagely, as if understanding every word, dabbing his whiskers delicately with a
napkin.

‘And
jetzt now we must return from whence
we came, leave this student rabble to it,’ Smilodon explained. ‘It’ll take them
a while to get out – the Meister
master, the decrepit old bugger, is leading the charge to the after dinner
drinks. So it’ll be less of a charge, more of a funereal dirge. This way,’ he
said, hopping off the daïs, and walking confidently between the rows of
students, tail raised high. A number raised their paws in greeting – he was
clearly a well-liked member of college.

I
followed Smilodon out of the great hall, down some more stone steps to the
court where I’d met him a few hours previously. Then we wound our way across
the flagstones and through the cloisters into a vaguely square court, with an
architecture that struck me as a mixture of human styles: some of which they
refer to as Tudor, some Gothic. Crenellations adorned the tops of the sandy
coloured blocks, with towers in each corner of the enclosure. And in the centre
was a circle of grass, much of which was occupied by an expansive chestnut
tree.

I
was led to one of the towers, up a few flights of a spiral staircase to a room,
dimly lit by the outside light. Another cat stood there in the gloom – a priest
of Bastet, who seemed to know Smilodon and had been expecting us. I was
introduced to this beatific, peaceful figure, who went by the unlikely name of
Tigger. (As an aside, this happens a lot in the cat world – our given names
reflect our Slaves rather than our temperament. Although I am pretty content
with mine.)

I
immediately sensed something wasn’t right in that room. I could see a tormented
soul, locked in the substance of a universe parallel to ours. What was odd,
however, was that the figure seemed to be human. As if something terrible had
happened here to that person.

‘Do
you know anything about this spirit?’ I asked Tigger.

‘Only
what I overheard from my Human Slave, another member of college in the human
world,’ the priest replied, his soft tones reassuring.

‘This
spirit is in torment. I’m not sure what I can do – it seems as if they are
trapped between places,’ I remarked, gravely.

‘The
spirit… She disappeared one day last term. No-one knew where. Her name was Charlotte.’

‘You
mean is. She is still very much alive,’ I explained. ‘Somehow, she’s managed to
her herself stuck. I scratched at the surface of spacetime, which roused the
spirit into action. She sang at us, bitterly, angrily, before retreating. But
in doing so, she’d revealed something to me: I’d seen the defect through which
she had fallen.

Now,
attempting to wrangle spirits isn’t for the faint hearted. What I did next was
not something I do regularly: the energy it takes out of me, the emotional cost
is far too much. Such things are better left to professionals, rather than
amateur dabblers like me.

I
flung myself again at the ghost of Charlotte, feeling spacetime warping again as
I scratched at the defect between the worlds. There was a sucking sound and I suddenly
felt myself falling. At the same time, I watched the spirit of the human female
change into smoke and lengthen, her face one of confusion and shock. The smoke
was sucked away, extracted from this plane of existence, her form returning to
her own world, where she would once again take corporeal form.

Then,
when I tried to return, something had changed. I felt myself being pulled into
this odd bubble universe between ours, and scratched with all my strength at
the fabric of our universe. For a moment I felt like I was going under,
destined to haunt students like Charlotte before me. But then, summoning all my
strength, some field somewhere finally snapped and with a burst of light, I was
flung across the room, crashing into the wall beyond and dislodging a picture frame
which hung there. As I landed on the floor, the frame followed, but I darted
out of its way just in time – as it hit the deck, both wooden frame and the pane
of glass within splintered, large chunks of the structure embedding themselves
in the wooden floorboards.

Smilodon
and Tigger stared at me aghast. It was only later, when I found a mirror, that
I realised how dreadful I looked. My fur had been singed and my soft cream
coloured fur was blackened. As was much of the room, its pristine white walls
now bearing large smudges of black.

‘Well,
I think I need to go home now,’ I muttered, staggering for the door.

‘That
was… beyond the call of duty,’ Smilodon said, humbly. ‘I only wanted you to
confirm the presence of the spirit. You know, like the character in your books
does.’

‘Right…
Well, anyway, I’ve had enough of this. I’m a cat and a writer, not some kind of
performing monkey,’ I spoke bitterly.

And
with that, I left Smilodon behind, heading across the courts and back outside
the college to All Saints Passage. Soon I was back in Bournemouth, my Slaves
fussing over me, as they wondered what the heck had happened to their cat.
Luckily, much of the burns were superficial, my undercoat spared, so the sooty
stuff brushed out. I let them pamper me.

***

A
week or so later, I received a message from Smilodon. He apologised for what
had happened, and assured me if I would still consider to let him represent me,
he wouldn’t mess around with the spirit world any more. As a postscript, he
also told me that Charlotte, the human I had managed to release from the limbo universe,
was now back at college and studying. The police had interviewed her on a few
occasions, trying to work out what had happened the weeks she’d been absent,
but she couldn’t remember anything. Her boyfriend, who had been held under
suspicion of murder, was eventually released from custody. In the years since, I
gather Charlotte’s studies went well and she eventually graduated with a first
in Anglo-Saxon.

I
kept Smilodon hanging on few a few more weeks, before I finally agreed to his
terms. The next time I returned to Cambridge, his tone remained as humble as in
the letter he’d sent. He took me to a fine restaurant on Midsummer common,
where the Cambridge Caterati usually hung out. And thereafter, not only did I
call him my agent, but we also became great friends.

That
fateful night was not mentioned again, until I felt compelled to use the events
in one of my novels - with a fictional slant of course, a roman à clef if you like. Perhaps what you read above is the real
thing, or perhaps it is my fictional account of what transpired – my memories
have been so warped by the fiction I created around them, I can no longer
remember the truth. Nevertheless, when I presented him with this manuscript, we
had what you might call an interesting conversation.

END

Where to next?

The Cat will return soon. But you can check out all his previous adventures here: